Enjoy The Ride
by Soncnica
Summary: Dean gets cursed, because he can't keep his paws to himself, when Sam says so. But Sam finds a cure, one which Dean will definitely not enjoy the ride on. So Sam has to play dirty.
1. Prologue

**A/N1: I wanted to get a very, very dear friend of mine shenshen1977 into writing some Supernatural fics, because she writes really cool stories for the Avengers fandom. So I went all sneaky and stuff on her and gave her this:**_ "Dean put the coffee cup on the table, the black liquid sloshing over the top and sighed: "Sammy, you know what?" "What?" He slurred and blinked, trying to keep Sam in focus. "I think this coffee ain't just coffee." _**and told her she has to use it in a story, with the plot of it being Sam spikes Dean's coffee, go wild with that! And so she did. And I did too. I wrote this and she wrote her own fic, but we each had to use THAT scene somewhere in the story. Please go check out her story, it's called SPIKED. Just go to shenshen1977's profile, and look for SPIKED! Yup, SPIKED! Because I'm a moron when it comes to linking to things *facepalm* **

**A/N2: This story is complete, it has a prologue, 4 chapters and an epilogue, will post every other day (because I still have to edit a few things). I own nothing and I'm sorry for any and all grammar/spelling mistakes you are gonna find. This is set in S2-ish. **

**WARNINGS: gross, icky, disgusting imagery (the usual from me, LOL), language and if you suffer from Chaetophobia, please do not read this!**

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PROLOGUE:

**April 4th, 1925**

The street was packed with people walking around minding their own business; they were always minding their own business these days – grim faced, hunched over with hands in their pockets and sadness in their eyes. Her mommy's hand in hers was warm, soft and a little sweaty, squeezing her little fingers tight, didn't wanna lose her in the mass of people. Her brand new black shoes were making a _taptaptap_ noise on the wet pavement, but she loved her shiny shoes, even if they were loud. They had a thin strap that buckled her foot in the shoe and she could see her white sock peeking through the hole at the top of her foot. It all went so nicely with her new brown-white dress and she smiled at Peggy Broadshoot across the road, because she had a new dress and new shoes, and Peggy didn't. She'd even stick out her tongue, but that was for babies and she was no baby.

She _taptaptap_ed on, trying not to step into anything eww-y on the sidewalk, because she wasn't supposed to ruin her new shoes. Mommy said so and daddy did too.

She took a deep breath; whatever was being made in the nearby bakery smelled so good, it made her mouth water and she wanted some of it. Or maybe some sweets, she'd die for some sweets. Maybe something with raisins, she loved raisins. She looked up at her mommy and smiled when her mommy's hand brushed some of her red, thick, wavy hair out of her eyes.

"We'll go to the pharmacist next. Alright darlin'? Then the bakery. I promise."

She nodded. Her mommy's voice was sad, her mommy was always sad these days, and her daddy angry. They fought a lot too; sometimes she heard the word 'money' being screamed by her daddy's booming voice. She knew they had little of that as soon as there was no more meat on the table. But mommy promised they would visit the bakery and maybe, maybe she'd get something sweet and full of raisins. Raisins weren't expensive, right? It wasn't expensive to dry grapes, was it?

She felt a little tug on her hand and a bell ring out above her head when her mommy opened the door to the small pharmacy. It was the only pharmacy miles around and even people from the next towns came here for their medication. It was run by Mr. Burley, but he died a month ago, shot himself in the head, she heard her daddy say, which surprised her, because Mr. Burley was always so nice to her. Gave her a lollipop every time she came here.

But the new pharmacist was a weird fellow. His hair was black, really short and so slick with gel, it looked gross. He had a scar on his left cheek that went from the corner of his mouth all the way up to his temple, dividing his cheek in two. She heard her mommy and daddy talk about the man and how he got the scar in Europe, ways back, but she didn't pay that much attention. Europe was far, far away and she was ten years old, an age when everything felt huge and far.

She peered at him over the high counter and shuddered. It really was a nasty looking scar; all red and gaping still, even if it happened a long time ago. And when he smiled at her across the counter, she nearly swallowed her tongue. It was something foul in that smile; it split his mouth and the scar apart. It was appalling, 's what it was.

"Well hello there, sweetheart."

Even the words were repulsive, made her shiver all over and she hid behind her mommy's legs, gripping her mommy's white-green silky dress with her hands. It wasn't a new dress; her mommy had it since she could remember and she loved it, especially the big white daisies that decorated the front. Her mommy was so pretty, and when her dress fluttered in the early April breeze, she looked like an angel.

She peeked around her mommy's legs at the man wrapping something in white paper. He smiled to her – the scar gaping wide - and she gasped and hid her face in the dress again.

She felt her mommy's hand on the top of her head, steering her towards the door. The bell rang again and the doors closed behind her.

"Bakery now, darling."

And they walked down the street towards the bakery.

When she saw the man next, he was leaning over her, his teeth pointy and black, dripping blood like a leaky faucet. His breath was as vile as his words had been and the scar on his cheek pulsed with his smile.

"Hello, sweetheart."

His voice was as soothing as it was obnoxious.

She wanted her mommy. She wanted her daddy.

"Mommy!"

The last thing she ever saw was a serrated knife and a huge chunk of her beautiful red curly hair along with bloody skin being held up in his hand.

The she knew no more.

**June 7th, 1959**

"Well hello there, sweetheart."

The man leaning over the high, white counter was … horrible. If her mother didn't need the cough syrup for father she thinks they'd both run away screaming. The man reeked of something, but she didn't know what. It just smelled really bad and he looked disgusting what with that red scar looking like the Grand Canyon – she knew Grand Canyon, she had been there last year with grandpa and grandma - that seemed to wink at her when he smiled. She gulped and looked away, finding the display of pamphlets on her left awfully interesting.

Next time she saw him, she was screaming herself hoarse and gasping for breath. Through bleary, tears filled eyes she could see a low ceiling above her; cracked and mold-green with a brown stain right above her that she hoped was from water.

There was a burning pain coming from somewhere around her head and she screamed and breathed in air that smelled of decay; rotten eggs and mold.

The man's teeth were sharp and black when he appeared at her left side and whispered: "Hello, sweetheart."

He was leaning over her with pieces of her long, straight red hair held in one hand and bloody scissors in the other.

Then she knew no more.

**June 17th, 1995  
**

"Hello, sweetheart."

The man was as sleazy as he had been when she last saw him. But now ... now his teeth were sharp and long and dripping blood and his eyes were full of glee. He smelled of age, something rotten and decayed; like someone who should've been six feet under a long, long time ago.

She screamed up at the low ceiling with a piss yellow stain right above her head. She screamed for her mommy and for her brother. She screamed because her head felt as if it was light on fire. She screamed for her dad, even if he had been dead for three years now. She screamed and gurgled when she saw strings of her curly red hair get stuffed into a glass jar.

Then she knew no more.

**May 17th, 2006**

"Hello, sweetheart."

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**TBC...**


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: I am sorry for any grammar/spelling/plot mistakes! And thank you for so many follows ... **

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CHAPTER 1:

**Now**

Sam slowly opened the thin, plastic – felt like plastic, could be wood, who the hell could tell these days - door to the latest motel room they were staying in. It was a normal looking room, nothing special about it; had two beds with dark red blankets, two nightstands with two lamps and a Bible in each drawer. Had a table with three chairs, had a small couch and a black 'n' white TV standing on a small, dust covered table. It was … normal looking until one opened the bathroom. Dean's jaw fell to the floor when he saw it, and while that gave Sam a really good one and a half minute laugh, it all disappeared real quickly when he had to actually use it. He left the door opened a crack, because he really didn't want to be closed up in that psychedelic room; there was just no telling when clowns would jump out from somewhere behind a tree – the bathroom had blue, green, red, brown, yellow trees painted on the freakin' walls - and eat him alive. He tried really hard to imagine he was doin' business in a forest – nothing strange about that. Except that it didn't really help.

He kicked the thin door closed with this heel, his right hand holding a huge paper bag filled with doughnuts - breakfast of the champions - and his left full of coffee cups. They were gonna need lots and lots of caffeine in their veins to get through the day, because they pulled an all-nighter and that always scrambled with their eggs a little. He still felt like he could sleep for a few more hours, but no … they needed to get moving, needed to leave this town before anyone would connect the dots and realize it was them who burned down the old pharmacy. They really didn't need to get on anyone's radar right now.

He yawned and walked slowly – careful not to let anything slip from his hands – and quietly to the small, plastic table that was hiding in the far corner, right in front of a small kitchen sink. He didn't want to wake up Dean yet, because his brother fell asleep just three hours ago, after turning and twisting on the bed for ages, until he found a spot comfortable enough to actually fall asleep.

He knew it hadn't just been the case that was giving his brother so much trouble finding peace and comfort at night. It was dad.

He sighed and shook his head. It was too early to think about this. Too early to think of death and destruction and how very much not alright Dean was. After getting some coffee and food, then he'd think about it. But right now, they needed to hit the road. A new case was probably waiting for them somewhere, something probably needed to be killed and an early morning meant an early night. And, as unhealthy as it sounded, a new case and something to kill, would make Dean better. If only for just a little while.

He yawned again and placed their breakfast on the disarray of crumpled newspaper articles – dead, bodies, hair, ten year old, monster - police reports – hair completely cut off sometimes with the whole scalp, massive blood loss, found in the woods - and vomit inducing autopsy pictures – little girls, bloody and covered with white sheets - that were all over the table and saw from the corner of his left eye his brother … sitting up on his bed.

Awake.

Fully awake as in eyes open and not … asleep. Not snoring. Like he should've been, because he needed the rest.

"Uh, Dean?"

Silence. And silence wasn't something his brother did well. Dean was always noise and obnoxiousness, stupid jokes and snores and grumbles. Sure right now, so soon after … dad … his brother wasn't all there, wasn't all that he'd been before, but silence? Like this? Especially when there was the smell of doughnuts and coffee rolling around in the air?

Not good.

"Dean?"

His brother was a sprawled mess of limbs and glassy eyes; the thin blanket and the sheet were lying sideways on the bed like they'd been in a fight that they lost really, really badly. His back was to the headboard, his legs stretched out before him, his arms lifelessly lying beside him, like someone cut the strings and everything just … fell where gravity pulled it. The dark redness of the blanket made everything look like Dean was bleeding, or more specifically, had already bled to death all over the bed.

He looked dead; his face was pale, freckles standing out, sweat glistering on his forehead and upper lip, his eyes glassy and staring at the TV. That wasn't on.

Sure, after … their dad … Dean was a bit weird, but this wasn't that kinda weird. This was something new, something uncharted.

"Dean?"

He stepped a little closer to the end of the bed, scared out of his mind now that maybe Dean … maybe he really had bled to death.

"Dean?!"

Dean blinked when he bumped the end of the bed with his shins, hard enough to move the bed a little. And that got his brother's attention.

"I …," he cleared his throat, "… I touched it Sam."

Dean's voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far, far away. Like his brother was drowning and trying to scream through murky water that was invading his lungs, making it impossible to breathe. It was fear – pure freakin' terror – in that voice and Sam … he didn't know what to do about it. Dean, scared? Those were just two very different things. Fear wasn't something they could afford, fear could get them killed, fear was only allowed in special occasions and Sam was sure he wasn't dying. So … shit.

"Dean..."

He put his own voice into a whisper and sat down on Dean's bed, his back touching Dean's calf. He put his elbows on his knees, washed his hands down his face – feeling tired, so damn tired - and sighed.

They were so, so screwed.

And it had been such a beautiful morning too. Sunny and warm and smelling of pines from the nearby forest and he went for a run, before picking up breakfast and coffee and everything was looking so great and the birds were singing and people were laughing and now this.

So screwed.

-:-

"What," he swallowed down the dread that was creeping all sour like up his throat, "… what happened, man?"

"Let's just ... not talk about it, okay? I touched it and that's that."

"Dude, I told you…" was a really dumb thing to say, but he said it anyways, because sometimes anger and Dean clouded his judgment on what was appropriate to say, but damn it … damn it, Dean. It wasn't as if they hadn't talked about this before going on the hunt. Do not touch anything. Do not even breathe or look at anything. And he know that he had been very specific about this, because he saw Dean nod and heard him say 'promise', but clearly something went wrong in that communication.

"Do you have a death wish? 's that it?"

Uh, probably not a very good idea to say that either, but again, anger and Dean mixing up in his brain made his mouth spill out shit he really shouldn't.

"What? No! Screw you, Sam."

Could he believe that? Because after … dad … Dean sure looked like he had plenty death wishes and a lot of opportunities to execute them. Maybe this was just one of them. How the hell should he know? Dean was a locked box right now, nothing coming out nor in.

"Okay, fine. So what the hell happened? I told you not to touch anything."

He wanted to look at Dean, but couldn't. He just couldn't tear his eyes away from a blue tree that was peeking out through a half opened bathroom door.

"Yeah well, there was no other option, okay? Can we just drop it and figure this out?"

His brother sounded pissed off wrapped in a flat tone. Like he had already given up and surrendered to his fate – the 'figure this out' part was just for Sam's benefit.

Well screw that.

He unglued his eyes from the blue tree and looked at Dean. His brother was still staring at the gray screen of the TV, but at some point he did move his hands into his lap and wiped away the sweat from his face.

He wasn't mad at Dean, not anymore. He believed him, that there was no other option to deal with the hunt, but to touch it. Because hell, if Dean did have a death wish, it probably wasn't to go down like this.

"Dean?"

"What?"

"You hurt anywhere?"

He expected for Dean to give him the stink eye and tell him to back off, but when his brother raised his right hand up from his lap and showed him his palm, for a second there, he didn't know what to do with it. He stared at the offered hand and thought 'will he bit off my arm if I touch him?'

"Uh…"

Dean wiggled his hand in front of Sam's eyes and said, completely flat and sounding like he was five: "It cut me."

His brows raised up in confusion, because: "_It_ cut _you_?"

That was new. He hadn't read about that anywhere. In the book that Bobby send them, all that was written - and he could quote it – was 'do not touch, but do find a way to burn it'. There were no words about the thing cutting anyone. And he knew Dean, if he cut himself, he'd say so. But his brother said that it cut him. Was it alive?

"You think … that it was, umm, alive?"

"Huh, could be, man. I mean … I remember grabbing it and then this sharp pain, but I didn't grab it that hard. Barely even held it. So … hmmm … could be."

Then something clicked. It clicked so hard in his head, that he barely contained a gasp, because … oh, uh, crap.

"Dean, I think …" he stopped himself, because really … should he share this with Dean? After all of this? After what happened? Should he tell his brother?

The answer was simple. Yes. Yeah he should, because Dean was smart and he'd figure this all out eventually and then he'd go all pissed at Sam for not sayin' anything and then they would have to drive around in awkward silence and that was just too stressful. So soon after … dad … it would just be too much to deal with. To have another thing between them that would hang over their heads.

But when he looked at Dean, he saw his eyes widen up and he knew that he waited a little too long to say anything, because Dean just figured it out too.

"Sam? Really? That thing was what the son of a bitch used to cut off the kids hair?"

"Dean…"

"Goddamn it."

"Dean, it was magic, okay? It probably, I don't know, turned into a knife or scissors or I don't know what, and when you touched it …"

"It turned into something sharp, right? Cut me? Poisoned me? Couldn't take my hair, because hello, not a redhead, but poisoned me anyway? Well, Sammy … that book Bobby send us? Is one useless piece of crap."

He chuckled. It wasn't one of those 'fuck this is so funny, I'm gonna pee my pants' chuckles. No, it was one of those 'fuck this is so messed up, I'm gonna end up in a psych ward' chuckles.

"Well, then we'll just have to write this in …" he swallowed his tongue. He couldn't say it. He couldn't say 'dad's journal'. He couldn't say it through the build of tears in the back of his throat. He just … couldn't. Even if they had that thing for almost a year and some change, but now … now it was all theirs. There would be no dad coming to collect at some point. It was theirs. The only thing they had of their dad.

" … dad's journal?"

Dean. The words were choked out, but … he said them. Made everything more real now.

"Yeah. In dad's journal."

They were silent for a while then. But it was a comfortable silence, one that felt _wrong_ to interrupt. There were noises coming in from the outside; people walking around, waking up, cars starting, TV's too loud, someone yelling 'Davy, come back here and eat your cornflakes!". And it was just so normal.

Even if Dean was coming closer and closer to feeling the full effects of the poison. Closer and closer to all _but_ dying.

"Show me the cuts." He whispered, because he didn't really want to see 'em, didn't want to see the things that'd bring his brother close to dying, but he knew he had to. Had to know. Had to know to describe everything to Bobby so that the old man would be able to find a cure. A way to fix this, because he was not gonna let his brother suffer. He was not and it didn't matter what it would take.

He gripped Dean by the wrist and looked at the palm. They were red. The cuts. Not infected, just red looking and … almost healed.

"They look like they're days old."

"Yeah, saw that. I just … damnit Sam."

He nodded, because yeah, damnit.

He didn't know what to do about the cuts, because they really looked all healed up and he wasn't gonna risk reopening them. Besides what had been done, had been done and there was no undoing it. No antiseptic or bandages or whatever would make Dean alright. Nothing, but a cure. A counter-spell, something.

"Yeah, okay, look ... just ...'s gonna be okay, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah ... sure. Whatever."

Neither of them believed a word they were saying. It was all lies, and lies they knew how to deal out.

"We have to get you someplace ... else. Somewhere where there are no people for miles around, okay?

Dean nodded.

"Dean..."

"Don't ... let's just ... I don't know ... go to Bobby's. Okay?"

"I don't know if we're gonna make it there in time, man."

"We still have some time, right?"

There was hope on Dean's face, in his eyes, his voice and Sam felt like an asshole having to break it, but…

"Dean," he sighed, "it's a long drive to Bobby's. Too long."

He would give anything, anything at all, to be able to take Dean to Bobby's, to take him somewhere his brother would feel comfortable enough to … scream out in unbearable pain … but there was no time. The drive would be too long, take away too much time that they could've spend searching for a cure.

"Shit."

They really were so screwed.

Just the thought of coffee and doughnuts waiting patiently to be munched on, made them both sick to their stomach. How could they eat, when in a few hours, Dean would be screaming his lungs out?

-:-

They packed their shit in record time and were on the road even faster. The motel manager didn't know what hit him when Sam slammed the credit card on his desk, mumbled something incoherent and ran away.

"We'll try to find a back road somewhere or a cabin or a house someplace... somewhere private, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah... I'll try not to..."

Sam whispered: " 's gonna be okay, Dean."

"Huh, yeah... I just... I think you should leave me wherever we stay and go... just... leave me there and come back after..."

"You're kidding right?"

His brother was a moron if he really thought he'd leave him alone to deal with this.

"No..."

"Shut up."

Sam drove on down the highway illuminated by bright, too bright sunshine. He had no direction, no plan other than drive, drive, drive and look for something private. Hidden. Didn't matter what; a barn, an abandoned house, a cabin, a freaking shack … didn't matter what, as long as it was hidden from prying eyes and ears and it had a roof. Preferably a bed too. But it was okay if there was no bed. The floor would be okay too.

-:-

They drove on some back roads, but there were always houses nearby, and they couldn't have that... couldn't have someone hearing them, hearing Dean.

Dean was good at hiding his pain, clenching his teeth and all, but he wasn't that good. No one was _that_ good.

This was going to hurt like hell.

"How you feelin' over there?"

He glanced at his brother and saw Dean rubbing his forehead and blinking way too rapidly.

"I … don't know. Kinda dizzy right now."

Shit.

"Gonna puke?"

"Naw, not that bad. 's just … whoah … uh, the road is a bit … spinning."

"Dean?"

"I'll be fine, just drive."

"I can stop for a minute."

"Just drive."

"Okay. Okay."

They needed a plan here, damnit. Needed a direction. Needed to call Bobby. They needed to find something … before … before Dean would start … showing signs. He couldn't call it 'all but dying'', not even in the privacy of his head, but that was what it would be.

All _but _dying. Pain, nosebleeds, hallucinations, panic attacks, bruises that would form on his body, choking for air, he was already dizzy … all _but _dying. He was gonna wish he was dying. But no such mercy would come, because Sam … he was not gonna … he wasn't. Could never.

He would find a cure. He still had some time left. And he had Bobby. And Bobby had books and connections and … they'd find a cure. They had to find something to make all of this easier on Dean. The thing poisoned him, cursed him, but not killed him, because like Dean said 'hello, not a redhead', but there was still a curse starting to work inside of Dean.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

He took his eyes of the road and looked at Dean.

There was a – river – of blood flowing out of his brother's nose, down his lips, dripping off his chin on his lap. Dean was trying to stop it with his hands, but that was like trying to stop rain from falling.

"Jesus, Dean!"

"I hnow, I hhnow … dampff it."

They didn't have a lot of time here.

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**TBC...**


	3. Chapter 2a

**A/N: I'm very sorry to have to divide this chapter into part **_**a**_** and **_**b**_**, but the mid-season finale broke my brain and I was a mess of incoherency and shock (still am, to be honest!). I just couldn't concentrate on editing more than this. I'll post part **_**b**_** during the weekend, I just need to get my brain back in order! LOL**

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CHAPTER 2a:

**Three days ago **

_"Where the hell are you, man?"_

Sam's voice through the phone was half way too cheery and the other half way too anxious for Dean to handle it very well so early in the morning. Sure nine o'clock was late by some people's standards, but for him, it was waaaay too early. Especially when he spend more than half of the night staring at the ceiling, thinking over what their dad said to him. About Sam. About his baby brother. About dad's baby boy.

_Kill him? Kill his brother? Fuck, dad …_

But he had to keep his game face on. Had to be who he was before their dad died, because Sam mustn't know anything about this. Anything. He needed to suck this up, bring up his walls and go on with the game.

"Coffee, dude. Coffee. I have to get it every morning to stay alive. Don't worry, I have some girly crap for you too."

And he did. Black coffee with enough sugar to kill a horse and something that smelled of some kinda roasted nuts, although to him it smelled like burned coffee, but if that was what his brother liked, then who was he to deny Samantha that. He was no one. He was just a person who lost his dad, watched his body burn on a pile of wood in some no name forest somewhere. And now, all that he had was his little brother, who wanted to drink weird coffee. So who the hell was he to say no?

_"I have a case. Drink fast then we're out of here."_

And the phone line went from Sam yapping about something to silence in point one second. Dean poured the freshly brewed coffee – black, like a man was supposed to drink it - into his system and was at the motel room before Sam could start bitching about leaving him there alone without leaving a note. Or waking him up and taking him with.

"So, where's the case?"

"Tell you on the way, come on."

"Where's the rush?"

Because yeah, where was the rush? Was the world ending? Let it end, if that would mean that he wouldn't have to follow through or even just think about what his dad told him before he died.

_Kill him? Kill his brother? Fuck, dad …_

"Dude, just come on."

Dean raised his eyebrow, but didn't argue. Arguing would be pointless with Sam looking at him like that. Or well, with Sam not looking at him like that, because Sam was already half way out the door and half way inside the Impala.

His brother was just so weird sometimes. He was used to it – he had been living with the kid almost all of their lives – but sometimes some things still caught him by surprise.

"Alrighty then."

He closed the motel door behind him with a soft click.

-:-

The ride in the Impala was silent, except for the too loud music that burned Sam's eardrums. But he was pretty sure, his eardrums were already burned into ashes, with all those years spent like this … yeah, he was pretty sure his ears were a mess. But monsters … he always heard them. And Dean … he always heard him too. In tune with them, someone might say. In tune with his brother, that's what he would say. Although right now, he had no idea what was going on inside Dean's head. After their ... dad … Dean tried so hard to act like nothing was wrong, but he knew _everything_ was wrong.

He peeled his eyes from the side of the road, the moisture in them that he always carried these days, almost spilling over in the rapid movement.

He smirked, looking at his brother. Nothing has changed over the years. Tight jaw and focused eyes, hair plastered to his forehead by the summer heat, freckles on his cheeks that stood out on the pale skin. Tensed shoulders and his arms stretched out, gripping the steering wheel as it should be held. As he was taught by dad and what they'd been taught by dad, they never forgot. Be it about hunting, be it about driving or eating or drinking, be it about how the world worked and how it didn't … they'd never forget all the lessons their dad beat into them.

Dean's right hand was tapping the beat on the steering wheel, the silver ring clashing with the leather and the string that held the whole thing together. If the car would be silent, Sam would have heard the _clickclickclick_ of it. Somewhere deep inside … he felt it. All those years … and he could _feel_ certain noises only by casting a look at what was causing them.

"Dean?" he tried with a steady voice, barely a notch above the singer's.

No response from his brother, just eyes glued to the road. The long gray stretch of road that seemed endless in its voyage. Endless in time. They had driven down so many roads; long, short, wide, narrow. So many roads and they all felt the same. So endless. Sometimes he felt like his whole life was a road and that it would never end the way he'd liked it to end. But that was okay. He knew that no one ever got what one wanted. And that really was okay.

"Dean!" he yelled over the song that was pushing through the speakers.

Even yelling from the top of his lungs got him nothing. Just green eyes, turned on the road … not even twitching.

He bit his lower lip and reached his hand towards the radio, his fingers touching the knob. He could feel vibrations through his fingertips, the vibrations of the song, the melody and the chords. The voice, the drums, the guitar. But he didn't hesitate. He turned the knob and silence washed over him for a split second, before his brother's voice found its way to his abused ears: "Hey, whatcha doing? I was listening to that."

"Well, tough." he looked at Dean and caught a frown but that shifted real soon into an eye roll and a tight jaw.

_Dean, please give me this._ Silence in this already noisy world. Jess's screams, the monsters screams, the victims pleas … the noise of the burning wood under his dad's body. He just needed silence. Just for this ride.

He could feel Dean's eyes on him from the moment he looked back out the window. He could feel that Dean knew, he could feel when Dean slid his eyes back on the road. Always on the road. Always moving from something to something. Away. Forward. Who the hell knew anymore? They just lost their dad, and moving felt right in some messed up way. Being in the Impala felt right, especially since Dean rebuild it and made it home again. Even with the rattling Legos in the vent.

The scenery was flying by with warp speed, as 'warp' as a '67 Chevy Impala could reach before being pulled over by the police. Or ruining the engine. And Dean couldn't have that. Neither of them could have that.

"'s nice here, isn't it?" he bit into his thumb, biting off some of the hard skin there. _It's nice, _this_, you know?_

"If you think so." _What, riding like this?_

"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it." _Yeah, riding like this, with my brother._

"Don't get your panties in a twist, jeez." Dean looked at the road ahead and how it was straight one second and weaving the next, "It's nice." _Just you and me, little brother, just you and me._

"So, uh, you wanna fill me in on the case?"

"Yeah, uh, yeah, so it started in 1925 when a Lily Callen disappeared, she was ten and no one heard anything, saw anything. She just disappeared one night and was found three days later. In the woods. Bled out. She had no hair on her head. As in no hair, no skin. Someone, uh, someone scalped her."

He shuddered and knew, just knew in his bones that Dean shuddered too. He didn't dare look at Dean from the file he was holding in his hands, because kids … that always hit hard.

"And uh, since then, every coupla years a kid disappears. Always a little girl, ten, eleven years old and always with red hair. Whatever we're up against, has a fetish with red hair," he shook his head, "I don't know, don't ask."

"Okay," he cleared his throat and eased up on the gas, wanting this drive to last a little longer, "do we know what it is?"

"I got a call from Bobby about this and he didn't say for sure, but he suspects it's a warlock or a witch … something in those lines. 'm gonna have to do some research on this."

"Damn I hate cases with witches of any sex. Magic, man, just makes me itchy all over."

"Yeah, tell me about it."

The sun was grazing over a meadow on the left side of the car. Resting its rays on the green and brown patches of grass, the sun tangling his heat with the dirt, making it crispy and brown. The road glowed in the sun, lines of heat rising from the asphalt somewhere in the distance, not moving when the Impala's wheels ran them over.

The meadow was a constant in his peripheral vision, Dean could see how the sun laid down its tentacles to place the heat on white daisies, yellow dandelions, violet alfalfas … and in the distance a farmer was cutting it with his state of the art lawnmower.

_He knows nothing about monsters and creatures that lurk in meadows. Poor lucky bastard. He has no knowledge of what skanks witches are, he knows nothing of magic and other crap. He doesn't know how it is when your dad tells you to kill your baby brother if you can't save him. He knows nothing. The lucky son of a bitch._

Dean shook his head and bit his tongue before he could say anything out loud and averted his eyes to the road. Always on the road. One would call it running away – from dad – but he knew it wasn't running. It was being at peace. It was moving forward; towards another case, another chance to save people, another chance to slice and dice and shoot and chop another son of a bitch that was taking lives.

_Took their dad's life. _

But even the yellow summer sun couldn't make the road look … not chilling. Couldn't make it look not old. So traveled on. So close. Dean could feel it under him, flying under the wheels, under his hands. He could touch it through his palm … the road was the only constant he had in his life. Not even Sam was that, because Sam left for a few years. While the road stayed and stretched into infinity.

The sun tried to help the road in concealing things that made a road alive ... feet, wheels, throwing up, music, lovers quarrels, laughter, break lines, damage from the rain and now, little pebbles, speed … death, but it didn't work. All those things were still there, in plain sight, if one just looked closely enough.

"Did he say anything else? Any clues?"

"No just that we can call if we need anything. So …"

"We're on our own, basically."

"Well, yeah."

_Because, dude, when are we not on our own?_

"Okay then. Let's go gank us a witch," he rolled his eyes, "or a warlock."

He pushed the pedal to the metal and …

"Ewwww, man. We hit a bug."

"What?" Sam looked at the windshield and saw the yellow dot in the middle of the glass.

"'s all yellow and crap looking."

"We hit millions of bugs…"

"But this one's huge. Look at the mess … oh baby 'm so sorry, I didn't mean too, the mean bug just came out of nowhere."

Sam wasn't really sure when Dean stopped talking to him and started a conversation with the Impala, but he found it amusing. And … he had missed this. Missed Dean talking to the Impala, as if it was a human and not a car and … he had missed this. If Dean hadn't rebuild it, if he hadn't … what … where … the Impala was their life, from the army men in the ashtray, to their initials carved into its body, and the Legos in the vent … Dean rebuild their lives … and dad, was still dead.

He closed his eyes. _Dad…_ and opened them back up, cleared his throat and just went with it. If Dean wanted to wail over a bug hitting the car's windshield, then who was he to not play along? He was no one. He was just someone who lost his dad and trying to not lose his big brother too.

"A bug committed a suicide on your baby's window?"

"Shhhhh, baby don't listen to the big, mean man. We'll get you cleaned up in a sec."

"Dean, you're talking to a car."

"Sam, shut your piehole."

And he turned up his baby's windshield wipers. The water first smudged the yellow gut of the bug into an even bigger smudge and after a few seconds of struggles with the damn thing the wipers finally wiped it off.

"There. See baby? All better." He grinned at Sam and then at the road.

The tiny droplets of water quickly dried off, lost themselves in the heat and the wind. The ones that remained reflected the sun and the clouds, flickering light into Sam's eyes, making him squeeze them into mere slits.

"D'ya know where my sun glasses are?"

"Aaaa," _I sat on them 3 years ago_, "try in the glove compartment." Dean listened to Sam shifting various things left and right, heard things rustling, something falling on the floor and saw Sam lean in to get it, some more rustling and a click.

"Not there."

"Well, I, ah, use mine."

"Where?"

"In the glove compartment."

"You mean that piece of old plastic?"

"Hey, if you don't want 'em…"

"They're covered in mustard; they slipped from my hand earlier and fell on the floor. No, thanks." he wiped his hands on his jeans.

"You dropped 'em. 's not my fault they're dirty."

"Well they are. You got mustard on them. I know you eat with your eyes too, but that's just gross man."

"Take it or leave it."

"Leave it. Definitely." He settled back into his seat, the soft leather already designed to his butt when the smell hit him. It hit him hard and it hit him fast. A warm breeze through the open window was all it took for him to slide back on the seat and sigh.

"Smells good." softly.

"What? The manure or the one week old hamburger wrapper?" Harsh.

"The grass, you idiot." Harsh.

"Oh, yeah. Ah, yeah." softly.

And it did smell … fresh. Dean looked at the man mowing the grass, the tiny stems falling dead underneath the sharp edges of the mower. Losing battle … a familiar feeling. Losing everything. Losing your family … life. Home.

_Dad…_

"Yeah." softly.

Sam looked back at the dirtier side of the road, the pebbles and throw away cans, and paper wrappers and dead animals. Yup, he got a really nice view … like always. A panoramic view of all things dead. If he could find any humor in it, he would have thought that it was his life he was looking at through the window. All things dead.

And the smell of grass followed his every movement; he scratched his head and removed a wayward lock of hair from his eye. He crunched up the map and the file with their latest case information and sneezed. Three times going on five.

"Can you close the window?" it was more of an order than a plea.

"Why? It's freaking hot in here." Annoyance.

"Unless you want to listen to me sneeze every three seconds…" going on seven sneezes and a half.

"You," a hand towards the window, "are," gripping the handle, "such," fidgeting with the handle, "a pain," the window going up, "in," and up, "my," up and up, "ass." And the window was closed.

"But you still closed the window." He showed Dean his biggest grin ... all white teeth and dimples.

"Shut up, Sammy." An eye roll.

"'s Sam." calmly.

"No," a look towards his brother, "it's," a tug in the corners of his lips, "Sammy." and a full smile.

"Jerk."

"Still a bitch, Sammy."

"Not gonna fight with a child."

"Who you calling a child, stupid?"

"Well unless that's a baby fly stuck in the back window, ahhh, you."

"Says the baby in the family."

Sam gritted his teeth and smiled. A dimpled smile in the midst of the black interior of the hot car. It felt good to smile … even if it hurt like hell.

Looking at the dead side of the road, Sam didn't even notice when the music came back on. But with his already ruined hearing … who could blame him? But it wasn't as loud as it was before. It was quiet, like holding onto the edges of falling into silence. It was a background noise, an accompanying symphony to their breathing. A noise he could bare. A noise that he could wrap away for later. It's been a while since they left their previous hunt, two days maybe. Or three nights. It didn't matter anyway. They were just enjoying a drive to their next hunt … there was no nervousness, no fidgeting, just coolness and togetherness. They've done this a million times already and one more time shouldn't make any difference. But there was something different.

There was no dad somewhere in America. There was no dad anymore anywhere.

"Is this making you nervous?"

"What?"

"This hunt?"

"Why?" _Ah, the tense shoulders, the tight jaw, the conversation that is slipping into nothing, the music, the pale skin…_

"Nothin'."

"Sam?"

"'s just that," he found a loose string in his pants, "kids, ya know," his palm became sweaty as he twirled the string around his finger, "'s never easy when kids are involved," he tightened the string, cutting off blood supply to the tip of his finger, "and witches, man," he could feel his fingertip going numb, "stuff like that never ends well."

"I feel fine, Sam. We'll deal with this, save some villagers and be on our merry way. It's what we do, or have you forgotten that? Stanford didn't ruin you that much, right?"

Sam let go of the string and flinched as blood begun to flow into his finger again. Dean saying that he felt fine was a bunch of horse crap. His brother wasn't feeling fine, he was hiding stuff, burying it deep, deep inside and it was just a matter of time when all of it would explode in the form of guts and heads and limbs flying everywhere. And blood. Lots of blood, because Dean liked to do things bloody.

"Okay, fine." he resumed his 'keeping my mind of the hunt and dad' routine … keeping himself busy darting his eyes over the map, busy counting the miles, calculating them into hours, busy listening to the song, busy listening to Dean fighting with his stomach.

"Hungry?"

"Could eat a horse."

"I don't know about a horse, man."

"A big steak, or hamburger, better make it two hamburgers. And some French fries. Can't have a hamburger without French fries. Oh and a Coke. And I need me some pie." He emphasized his words with his hand rubbing a small circle over his stomach.

Sam's own stomach rolled a few times, making a squealing noise as it stopped on the thought of food. He swallowed down a thick ball of saliva and could taste a hamburger of his own in there. And some salad; can't have a hamburger without salad.

"What happened to a horse?" Sam chuckled and gripped the map with both hands as it was on its way of sliding down his legs.

"I made it into a hamburger. Now, tell me how far?" his eyes never wavered from the road, the line separating the lanes making him dizzy. Flying by way to fast to be normal, and he eased off the gas pedal again. No need to hurry today … just enjoy the ride. Just enjoy the day, before he'd have to kill whatever creature was praying on the kids. Killing them. Kids. Godamnit. Sam would have to do research with the speed of light, because he wanted this _thing_ dead yesterday. Years ago.

"Uh, not far. Just a couple of hours. You 'kay to drive?" the last words just slipped out, he wasn't really sure what unnatural force made him say it. Because denying Dean driving? What the fuck was he thinking? That was like one of the great sins. But truth was, he really had no idea how to handle his brother right now. Dean was slipping out of control, spinning from 'all is fine' to 'killing things furious and bloody and efficiently'. He had no idea how to handle Dean right now. What to say to him that wouldn't set him off, that wouldn't make him pissed at him, that wouldn't make him yell at him and leave him behind with the door banging in his face.

Dean gripped the wheel tighter in his hands and let his eyes seek out Sam's: "You serious?"

A blank mind was all Sam had at the moment and two words managed to escape: "Never mind."

But still … he had to try, even if that would've resulted in a fight and broken bones or soul. His brother had been driving for a while now, and somewhere along the way … that would come out to play.

"Just let me drive, alright? I'll tell you if I wanna stop."

And there it was. The tension. That great divide, the freaking Grand Canyon between them that appeared when dad died and they just didn't know how to fix. That anger. Resentment? Secrets.

Sam sighed and tried to relax into the seat. It was hard to do this, when he never knew what would set his brother off. It was hard to stay strong and brave when all he wanted was to scream _stop _and cry his eyes out.

It was hard watching his brother be like this. So hard. And what was even harder was waiting for the moment when everything would become too much and Dean would lose it. That … that was the hardest thing to do. Because he wasn't sure how he'd handle it. How he'd be there for Dean, when really, he felt as broken as Dean did.

But right now, he just wanted to find the quickest route to a diner and then to a motel. That was on his shoulders and all the rest was on Dean's. Then they would settle down, do some research and kill the evil son of a bitch that had been ripping kids from their families for decades. Probably centuries, depending on what the hell they were dealing with.

And then? Then they'd do this all over again; drive down an endless road to their next case.

* * *

**TBC **in CHAPTER 2b


	4. Chapter 2b

**A/N: Enjoy.**

* * *

CHAPTER 2b

**A day ago**

The motel they were staying at was called The Daisy Day motel, but there was nothing daisy about it. It had blood red bed covers, grimy windows, and a bathroom full of trees. Painted on the wall trees, but trees nonetheless. Colorful trees. If one would take some drugs and go hide in the bathroom, woooheeee, what a joy ride that would've been.

Dean had been stuck to his bed and the TV, while Sam'd been stuck to the table and his laptop throughout the two days they'd been in the room, both of them giving the bathroom sneaky glances, both of them freaked out by the trees in there. In the 'real' world – the one out there, behind the four walls of the room - trees could hide many a thing, and who was to say – with the crazy they've seen – that the trees on the walls couldn't hide many a thing as well.

They'd been all over the small town since they arrived in this god forsaken place, talked to the mother of the latest victim – Angie had been her name, with hair the color of strawberries – talked to some of the townsfolk, got so much information that at one point Dean's head started to spin and he thought he was having a brain melt down, printed out all the newspaper articles they could find, been to the morgue, been to the little police station, did all they normally do but what made them go _eureka_ had been Sam's little sneeze fest he had in the car two days earlier. The smell of grass, yeah right … it had been a minor sneeze fest then that went and morphed into a big sneeze fest until they were forced to visit the little – archaic – pharmacy on the main street.

For something against the sneezing, because they needed sleep and sneezing every five minutes would not bring them that. And to stock up their first aid kit, because they were low on … basically everything.

"Hello there, fellows. What can I help you with?"

And that was all it took for Sam's eyes to widen in the _eureka_ moment and for him to splutter something that sounded like 'uh nothing, gotta go, thank you, bye' and run out of the pharmacy like a clown had been on his ass.

All Dean could manage to say was 'uh' and point to his temple, making a circular motion with his finger and run after his brother.

He said it a million times already and he would say it a million times more, but his brother was just so weird sometimes.

"What the hell, Sam?"

They were standing on the sidewalk, getting dirty looks from the passerby's, because they were blocking their way. Whatever. They were here to save them, save their daughters, and that gave them the goddamn right to stand wherever they goddamn wanted.

"Dean, the pharmacist…"

"What?"

"It's him."

Sam's voice was a whisper; like he just shared the biggest secret to end all secrets to his brother, although by the way they were acting – all nervous and suspicious and shifty and standing there in front of the pharmacy like the idiots that they were, giving out all kinda signals and red flags to the pharmacist who was watching them from behind the counter – Sam could've screamed it at the top of his lungs, for all it mattered.

"Dude, we're not suspicions standing here at all, come on." he grabbed Sam by his shoulder and pulled him further down the sidewalk, giving the pharmacist a little wave and a grin; nothing to see here, buddy, we'll come kill ya a little later you son of a bitch.

They stopped by a little café, the smell of coffee wrapping itself around them, making Dean's mouth water, but … now was not the time for leisure and pleasure of the coffee kind, now was time to get down to business, because his little brother sniffed out a clue and a clue often turned into the case halfway done and that … meant Dean got to kill something.

Freakin' finally, because this dry spell of not killing anything had to end. He itched to grab his gun and squeeze the trigger, one, two, three times, or as many times as it would take. He itched to feel the handle of his favorite knife in his palm, chop, chop, slice and dice. He itched to do something, and to stop this sitting on his ass, he had been doing for some time now. He needed to kill something that wasn't his brother. Wanted to see death that wasn't his dad.

"Okay, how do you know?"

Sam huffed and leaned further down towards Dean, trying not to scare the people who were going in and out the café. Because talking about warlocks and red-headed little girls was a sure fire way to get noticed. And they couldn't afford to get noticed.

"I saw him on a picture. In one of the newspaper articles. Dude, a scar like that, I'd never forget it."

"So?"

"The article was from nineteen thirty-three."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Okay, but next time, don't go weird like that. You know better than to freak out like that, okay? You probably tipped him off. Idiot."

Sam rolled his eyes. He had no intention to argue. He couldn't. He didn't have the strength in him to argue with Dean right now.

He sighed and followed his brother down the sidewalk.

-:-

And here they were now. Sam behind the laptop and on the phone with Bobby, multitasking both and a cup of coffee and Dean on the bed staring at the picture of the guy – the same guy they saw earlier – in the article.

The scar, the hair, the nose, the eyes, his everything. Exactly the same. And the picture was from 1933, for Christ sake and the dude hadn't aged one tiny bit.

He wanted to go hunt down the son of a bitch. He could already feel adrenaline starting to build up in him, his eyes clouding over, the need to shoot or burn something so strong inside of him, that it scared him for a second, but just a second, because then he looked at Sam, looked at his brother who was hunched over the laptop, typing furiously while speaking with Bobby on the phone. His brother, who he was supposed to kill. The man who was trying so damn hard to save others, giving up everything, giving up sleep and food and ruining his eyes with the glow of the computer … how … how could he kill him? What the hell was his father thinking?

He could never … ever …

"'kay, thanks Bobby."

He took a sip of his too warm beer and shook his head. He could never kill Sam. If Sam would go dark side or whatever his father thought would happen to him … they they'd go down together. Drive off a freakin' cliff or eat a bullet, but he was not gonna kill his baby brother. No matter what and his dad can just …

_Oh God, dad…_

He cleared his throat, getting that pesky warm and choking feeling to go back down to the depths of his soul: "Found anythin'?"

"Yeah," he watched Sam stretch his arms up to the ceiling and move a little to the right and a little to the left, getting his muscles to unlock, "man, I found too much. This is just … this is just … disgusting, 's what it is, man."

Dean finished the bottle of beer and put it on the night stand. Disgusting? Disgusting was what they did. Disgusting, nasty, gross, weird, creepy … that was what they dealt with. They were like pest control – seen it all and more but still kept on going at it.

"Talk to me."

"Well, it is a warlock. And he's been, or well, is still, using red hair for spells, cures and by cures I mean ointments, syrups, creams, pills … you name it."

"Seriously?"

"Not kidding, man. Seriously."

The beer suddenly tried to make another appearance, but Dean swallowed it down.

"That's as nasty as it is disturbing. Why?"

"I don't know. Bobby send me some pages of a book … says here that red hair had been used in some healing processes and for certain spells and I guess the pharmacist … well, dude, he's a pharmacist. Do I need to explain more?

"Uhh, please don't."

He would very much love to keep that beer down. He would very much love to drown that beer in whiskey, but one couldn't always get what one wanted.

"Yeah…"

"Okay, so," he clasped his hands, "how do we kill it?"

"Well the book says to burn what holds the warlock's power, but, and Dean, I'm quoting this, do not touch, but do find a way to burn it."

"Burn what?"

"I have no idea. Something that's giving him power. Could be anything really."

"Okay, so we'll improvise."

"How?"

"Well it has to be something that he has on him or close to him at all times, right? Because he needs that power. So … when we get to his little pharmacy of horror, we'll see what he holds near and dear."

"Dean, that's …" _suicidal._

"Sam…" _I know, okay, but I need this asshole dead, no matter what it takes._

Sam nodded and looked down at the keyboard, seeking answers for what the hell to do with his brother. All the keyboard gave him was a jumble of letters in no order at all … just like his brother was at the moment. A mess of things out of order.

_Damn it …_

"Anything else?"

"No. Just burn the thing and don't touch."

"Okay, so burning yes, touching no. Got it."

"Dean…"

"What?"

"Promise me you won't touch a thing. Don't even look at anything, don't even breathe on anything."

"Dude, what am I? Five?"

"Dean, please …" _I can't lose you, okay? I can't…_

"I promise, okay? Happy now? Can we just…" he sighed, because he really didn't want to fight with Sam right now. He was this close to hunting mode and one step over the line and he'd hurt his brother and he didn't want that. They were both hurting enough without any physical pain added to it.

"… can we just get ready, go, burn, and leave?"

"Yeah, okay."

They were both so very tired.

"We leave tonight?

"Damn right we go tonight! I wanna burn me some warlock or well the thing that gives him power, although 'm hoping he'll burn too."

Sam chuckled, because damn right Dean wanted to kill/burn/slaughter something, and the warlock was just at the right place at the right time.

"So? Anything else about him?"

-:-

A freaking pharmacist of all things. Someone who hands out drugs for a living. Jesus Christ, but some assholes are cunning, Dean has to give 'em that.

The warlock had been alive for centuries, luring redheaded little girls into his secret labs all over the world for freakin' centuries. Centuries. Not just years or decades, but centuries. Seven to be exact, or so the book said.

Seven centuries of cutting off little girl's hair – and killing them - to use it for spells and cures; syrups (oh dear God but that one made him puke a little in his mouth) and pills and ointments (he gagged a bit with that one, because seriously?) and shit and that just had to end. You don't just go around cutting off little girls red hair and making syrup out of it and live to see another day. It had to end.

And ending it had been relatively easy actually, easier than most crap they faced in the past. Which of course should have been Dean's first clue that something was wrong. Wrong as in very, very wrong.

But moving among all the glasses of weird liquids and boxes of 'I don't wanna know what's in there' and more glasses in which red hair was swimming in, floating in, there was no time to think shit through. It was do, act and kill. Now, now, now, before the warlock could cast a spell on them or blast them into next year or a few years in the past, never mind the details.

"Seriously? A black robe? Imagination ain't your strong suit, huh?"

"Hunter, you mock me, but I can see … your soul … you are unwell."

"Oh God, a speech? Seriously?"

The warlock's head tipped to the side, thinking, contemplating, seeing: "You carry something on your soul, it is making you sick, making you hurt. I can help you with that."

He rolled his eyes: "Please, shut the hell up."

He wanted to shut the warlock up the old fashioned way – a fist to his face – but he had a plan and if he'd have to listen to the crazy to get the plan to work, then he'd do it. All part of the job.

"Hunter, I have been alive for seven hundred years, I have seen your kind kill and be killed, have seen it all, but you … you are something else, hunter. Your soul shines very bright, while his," he pointed at Sam who was lying very still by a wall, "shines very dark. I can help you with that too."

"Okay, let me guess. Gonna give us a potion, made of little girls hair, right? And that's gonna make us all okay?"

He needed just a few more minutes and then all this fucked up crap spilling out of the warlock's mouth would be gone.

"Of course. It is the best cure, after all, as it holds courage, passion, beauty, anger, fire. Blood. Sacrifice. All things you know best, am I correct, hunter? And people who came here in search for cures to aid their diseases, their illnesses got them. I was doing nothing wrong."

Dean wanted to puke. He really, really wanted to puke all over the dirty, cold cement floor.

"Oh so, killing little girls and scalping them was doing nothing wrong?"

The warlock grinned, the scar opening up and leaking something that looked like pus or blood, Dean had no idea, but it made him nauseas even more than he already was.

"The … stain … on both of your souls … it is sacrifice and anger. Martyrs, hunter? Really? The red you two share smells so … interesting. So strong. Especially in him. His … blood smells black. Fascinating."

He clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth, because goddamn it. Son of a bitch. _He_ was starting to see red, anger flowing in his veins, a snake ready to attack.

"Oh, I know you two are brothers, hunter. I can smell red between you, the blood … it smells the same, yet not."

The warlock's teeth were sharp, pointy and black and he was close enough now that Dean could've grabbed that damn stick and burn it.

"'m glad we can entertain you."

The warlock squinted his eyes: "There is no need for a sharp tongue, hunter. I am just telling you the truth. You and he are blood, connected by fire, but he is danger while you are sacrifice and red can fix both of you."

What was the son of a bitch talking about? He had heard of crazy, hell he had seen crazy, but this was crazy with crazy on top and crazy on the side.

He had enough. It was enough. It was all enough. He rose up from the ground and charged at the warlock, knocking him down to the ground, grabbing the warlock's - staff?, stick?, twig?, branch?, he'll go with stick – and ripping it from the warlock's tight grip. They figured out very quickly that the stick was what stored the warlock's power – his magic – when the warlock raised it up and send Sam flying to the opposite wall.

"Ha ha, got it."

He flinched when he felt something sharp bite at his palm, but forgot about it a second later because the warlock was looking at him and smiling.

He looked at the stick; it was made out of wood, probably made of some ancient tree species that no longer existed on this world anymore, and when he light it up, it caught fire like it was made of gasoline. Which should have been Dean's second clue that something was horribly, weirdly, terrifyingly wrong.

"Huh …"

Was all he said when he dropped the burning stick to the concrete floor of the mad warlock's creepy laboratory under the pharmacy.

"Well would ya look at that crazy ass twig burn."

He looked at the warlock and how fire was starting to eat him from the feet up. The warlock's smile – that gross scar puking out even more blood or pus - should have been his third clue that something really was so wrong on so many levels.

And the fourth clue? The biggest one of all? The warlock laughing: "You touched it, hunter." just before the flames rose up his whole body and turned him into ashes.

But before he could get any deeper into the weirdness of it all, Sam came around with a groan and a feeble attempt to get from his ass to his feet. Dean just hoped that everything was okay with Sam's head, because they had to get out of here before the police would come snooping around and find them among jars of floating red hair.

"You 'kay, Sam?"

"'m fine, yeah …"

Sam's eyes were a bit huge, bigger than normal, but he seemed coherent which was okay in Dean's book and meant that they could haul ass and run.

"Okay, come on. We have to go."

He grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him up.

"You missed all the fun, man."

"Did you burn the stick?"

"Hell yeah. Burned like dried grass."

"You didn't touch it, right?"

Uh-oh.

"Umm, let's go."

Well shit then.

* * *

**TBC...**


End file.
